Salem blinked as the world around him warped again. The violet city from the last loop melted into a dusky landscape of familiar streets—but with a twist. Cars drove upside down. People walked sideways. Streetlights flickered erratically, some blinking in Morse code that made no sense, and others seemed to hum, almost sentient.
He groaned. "Every jump feels worse than the last…"
A voice, familiar but impossibly sardonic, crept into his mind.
"Welcome back, Salem. I see you survived the loop. Impressive, in a fragile, human sort of way."
"…The Writer?" Salem muttered, rubbing his temples. "Or are you… something else this time?"
"Call me your guide. Or tormentor. Or both. Titles are meaningless in fractured timelines."
Salem sighed. He had learned by now that arguing with the Writer was like debating a hurricane: pointless and likely to get you wet. He needed focus. He needed answers.
The ground trembled beneath him, and suddenly, he was no longer in the street. He stood on the edge of a massive clocktower. Below, time itself seemed to unravel: pieces of past events, potential futures, and alternate presents floated like paper boats on a stormy river.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" the Writer murmured. "Each fragment a possibility. Every choice a ripple."
Salem stared, heart racing. "How am I supposed to… control any of this?"
"Control? Ha! You think you control it. No, my dear protagonist, you navigate it. Like a cat on a tightrope over exploding fireworks. Graceful, but deadly if you slip."
The first ripple shimmered: the July Revolution. Children screamed as chaos erupted, their laughter and cries intermingled with the echo of history. Salem's stomach twisted. He had seen these events in fragments before, but now he was inside them—an observer, participant, and witness all at once.
"Notice something?" the Writer teased. "Time doesn't flow. It wobbles. It loops. It folds like origami made by an angry deity."
Salem's eyes narrowed. "I… I can feel it. The timelines… they're bleeding into each other."
"Exactly. And you, my unpredictable protagonist, are the knife."
The air shimmered, and suddenly, he was in March 2020. Streets were eerily empty. Masks covered every face. Newsstands flashed headlines of a mysterious virus. Salem's heart thudded. He had traveled here before, but this time, the virus's presence felt… different. Almost alive, waiting for him.
"Ah, the infamous Corona timeline," the Writer mused. "You carry a bit of chaos with you, you know. And now the world suspects you."
Salem froze. "They… they think I brought it?"
"A logical conclusion, from their limited perspective. But don't get distracted. You have a mission."
He moved through the streets, trying to blend in, yet every shadow seemed aware of him. Every distant cough echoed unnaturally, as if acknowledging his presence. The virus wasn't just biological—it was temporal. It had traveled with him, left fragments, little chaos seeds scattered across realities.
Suddenly, the scene shifted. He was no longer in 2020 but in 1971, a dusty battlefield somewhere in South Asia. Guns roared. Explosions carved the landscape. People ran in terror. Time skipped violently here and there, almost as if apologizing for the disorder. Salem's stomach dropped.
"Ah, history. The ultimate test," the Writer whispered. "And your final volume begins here. Choices ripple, and every one matters."
Salem swallowed hard. He realized the stakes weren't just personal. Entire timelines, realities, and lives rested on his actions. Each movement he made could save or erase thousands. And yet, the loops, the skips, the glitches—they were part of him now. They were tools. Weapons. Chains.
"Are you ready?" the Writer asked, tone lighter, almost mischievous. "Or will you trip over your own story again?"
Salem clenched his fists. "I'm ready. I don't know how, but I have to be. No more running. No more loops. Time travel, chaos, 4th-wall nonsense… I'll face it all."
The city around him dissolved, leaving only a void. In it floated doors: one red, one blue, one shimmering with a kaleidoscope of impossible colors. Each door led to a different temporal thread. Salem's mind raced.
"Choose wisely," the Writer intoned. "Or don't. After all, you're Out of Order. Chaos is your natural state."
Salem hesitated. He considered the red door, pulsating with fire and revolution. The blue door, serene but ominous, humming with the virus's timeline. And the kaleidoscope door, swirling with infinite possibilities, each more dangerous than the last.
He took a deep breath. "I… I take the middle one. The blue."
The door snapped open, and the world warped violently. He was thrust into a hospital corridor, the air thick with antiseptic and fear. Patients coughed, nurses shouted, machines beeped. Salem realized he wasn't just observing. He was interacting. Every step could change the course of this reality. Every word could shift the virus, every action could rewrite history.
"Notice the chaos," the Writer purred. "And yet, beauty exists within it. Humanity persists. And you, Salem, are both the curse and the savior."
Salem moved carefully, eyes darting. He passed a child coughing in the corner and felt a strange connection. Somehow, the loops, the skips, the timelines—they were not just puzzles or traps. They were lessons. Warnings. Echoes of all the lives he might touch, all the lives he might destroy.
The corridor ended abruptly. A glass window reflected his face. His own eyes stared back—older, weary, but determined. Behind him, shadows flickered, whispers of other versions of himself, other choices, other failures. He realized the true challenge wasn't the virus, the loops, or the Writer. It was himself.
"Step forward," the Writer coaxed. "Or don't. But remember, every step you take echoes across time."
Salem swallowed, gripping the railing. He could hear the echoes of children, of cities, of forgotten moments. He could see the ripple of choices, the fractures he had caused and could heal. And he understood.
"I'll do it," he said softly. "I'll navigate this chaos. I'll thread it together. I'll fix… what I can."
The world trembled. The doors, the corridors, the loops—all dissolved into light. Salem felt himself falling, yet grounded. Suspended in the nexus of time. The blue door remained behind him, glowing softly, a promise and a challenge all at once.
"Forward, Salem," the Writer whispered. "Time isn't done with you. And neither am I."
And with a final breath, he stepped into the unknown, the temporal mischief of his own creation, ready to face the next fragment, the next loop, the next chaos.